On the Outer Banks, a long chain of barrier islands off the coast of

sea change
gourmet travels
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On the Outer Banks, a long chain of barrier islands off the coast of
North Carolina, you’ll find sand dunes and salty air, a culture steeped
in risk and resilience, and food that will surprise you. It all exerts a
strong tidal pull. By Jane Daniels Lear Photographs by Toby Glanville
At the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, you are standing on the edge of the continent. Your footprints might be the only ones of the day.
From top, left to right: Solar power on Ocracoke; Café Atlantic’s stellar crab cakes; the Hatteras Light sweeps 20 miles out to sea; Thai Moon’s interior
is as welcoming as chef “Moon” Dennis; watermen Nicholas Pilaud and Craig Mercer; cottage comfort at Edwards of Ocracoke; the ocean keeps
coming; artist-chef Debbie Wells and “vegetable man” Braxton Cahoon; beach retreats; time to fish or cut bait. Opposite: Neither out far nor in deep.
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I
was coasting down N.C. 12, bound for an Ocracoke beach on a
balloon-tired rental bike, when the smell hit me like a two-by-four. Garlic.
Cilantro. Chiles sizzling in hot oil. Stunned, I skidded to a halt and
landed on crushed oyster shells, hard, in front of O’Neal’s tackle shop.
Having spent many childhood summers on the Outer Banks, I know the
food has always been from the sea. Impeccably fresh and uncomplicated
(“You want that fried or broiled, hon?”), it’s also typically very mild.
Ignoring the large graze on my knee, I peered around and inhaled deeply.
This time, though, I got nothing more than bait (mullet, I thought) from
the fish-cleaning table around back.
There was a figure seated on the top step.“You lookin’ like a bird dog,” an
amused voice drawled. I grinned, taking in the faded Ocracoke Volunteer
Fire Department T-shirt and the pack of smokes in his hand. “It was the
garlic,” I said, feeling sheepish and like the worst kind of tourist. “Wind just
shifted,” he replied, cocking an ear to the squawk of the VHF radio inside
the screen door. “Boats are comin’ in with Spanish mackerel. But it sounds
like what you’re after is Thai Moon.” He flapped a hand across the road.
The beach could wait. I ended up instead at the unlikeliest
restaurant on Ocracoke, a shipshape takeout place (“If Catching
Ferry, please call your order ahead!” reads the menu) in the sort
of shopping enclave—everything from sunglasses to stained
glass—common from Nantucket to Key West. After finding a
bench in the shade, I dug into my lunch, quickly realizing I’d
never tasted a better version of larb, a spicy salad of flash-fried
finely ground pork seasoned with lime juice, chiles, onion, cilantro, and nutty toasted rice. Hot-and-sour shrimp soup was
heady with lemongrass, citrus, and the fermented tang of fish
sauce; an intense, chunky curry made with red drum, a popular
sport fish, had a deep chile sweetness.
Proprietor Pramuan “Moon” Dennis is as shy as her food is
confident. “We met in Saipan,” explained Rob Dennis, Moon’s
husband and a former merchant mariner. “She worked in a garment factory.” After the two married and moved to the upper
Banks, Moon got a job at the Walmart in Kitty Hawk. “My wife
didn’t know anything about restaurants,” said Dennis. “But she
knew food, and she would bring her lunch every day. Soon she
started cooking for her coworkers at Walmart. Every Wednesday, she’d pin a little menu on the bulletin board and folks would
sign up for lunch. That’s how this whole thing got started.”
People have been carving a toehold for themselves on the
Outer Banks for more than 400 years, and the Banks, like those
who have settled there, are anything but fragile. Even though
barrier islands may look delicate, they are, in fact, extremely hardy
and adaptable. The long, slender bodies of sand, separated from
the coast by broad sounds and from each other by tricky, fastmoving inlets, are in constant motion, changing shape in order
to absorb the storm surges—thousands of metric tons of water
being pushed into shallower depths—that would otherwise have
an impact on the mainland.
I’d started my journey a week earlier and about 150 miles to
the north, in Duck, on Bodie Island, where a fishing hamlet first
appeared on maps in the 1790s, and where the cedar-shingled,
low-key Sanderling Resort & Spa holds pride of place today.
The swamp forests and estuaries there and on the mainland side
of Currituck Sound are home to more than 250 species of waterfowl at various times of year, and grabbing binoculars and
field guide before I left my room soon became a habit.
Twenty miles up the road, I took stock of the 15,000 acres of
unpaved outback known as Carova (it sits right below the North
Carolina–Virginia state line) with Jim Shipley, a 69-year-old
surfer, drag racer, and former NASA engineer who guides tours
of the area. From his bucking, slewing, beat-to-hell Land Cruiser, Carova is a crazy quilt of dunes, maritime forest, and summer cottages plopped down every which way along wide,
desolate tracks in the sand that shape-shift while you’re looking
at them, causing many first-time visitors to mutter “We are
never going to get out of here” like a mantra. There are no grocery stores, no traffic lights, no cars that don’t have four-wheel
drive. What you will find, though, are about 130 shaggy descendants of Spanish mustangs that roam freely, grazing belly deep
amid sea oats and spartina. There are wild boar, too; a gray fox
slipping into the scrub; great blue herons standing like statues
in the shallows; and double-crested cormorants on the wing.
Nature makes me hungry. The Sanderling’s snug, wainscoted Lifesaving Station Restaurant—located in one of the 29 such
stations that were established along the coast of North Carolina between 1874 and 1911—is known for its shrimp, crab, and
corn chowder, but what won my heart was something you don’t
normally see on a resort menu: “Simple Seafood Simply Prepared.” The evening I was there, that meant sweet, tender local
shrimp, and they couldn’t have been more expertly grilled or
more satisfying.
T
here was a light sea breeze the morning I headed south to
Hatteras, lured by the vivid names of the villages along
the central Banks—Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, Nags
Head. They’re overlaid today with beach condos, strip malls,
and big-box stores (little did I know that, courtesy of Thai
Moon, I’d soon look on the Walmart in a more kindly light),
but the pylon memorializing the intuitive, endlessly tinkering
Wright Brothers glints in the sun, and kites and hang gliders
At The Sanderling, hummocks of green-gold beach grass and shore plants roll out to the ocean like waves, making it a safe haven for wildlife.
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float above Jockey’s Ridge State Park. Its steep, immense dunes
are formed by northeasterly storm winds, which blow beach
sand toward the sound; from the opposite direction, prevailing
southwesterlies shove it back toward the ocean. The dunes, the
tallest on the East Coast, nudge up against busy U.S. 158 with
all the grandeur of a gentle yet determined Great Dane.
N.C. 12 (Beach Road), which runs parallel to 158 until you
reach Nags Head, threads its narrow way south to Ocracoke,
following the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. Once you cross
the breathtaking span of Bonner Bridge, over Oregon Inlet,
you’ll find yourself in the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge,
at the north end of Hatteras Island. It’s wind-scoured and beautiful, with dunes between highway and ocean; the lines on the
road often disappear beneath sweeping crescents of sand and,
during a bad storm, the Atlantic.
Near the refuge’s headquarters is the site of the Pea Island
Life-Saving Station, active from 1878 until 1947. The keeper of
the station, Richard Etheridge, was born a slave on Roanoke
Island and commanded the only black lifesaving crew in the
country. Their finest hour came in October 1896, when the
schooner E.S. Newman foundered offshore in a hurricane. The
conditions were so horrific that neither boats nor beach apparatus could be used; the surfmen swam out to the ship and rescued
its crew—and the captain’s wife and child—one at a time. Six
miles south, Chicamacomico (“chick-a-ma-COM-i-co”) station
still survives in its original setting. After the British tanker S.S.
Mirlo was torpedoed by a German U-boat in 1918, keeper John
Allen Midgett Jr. and his men overcame the turbulent, blazing
ocean (the flames were 500 feet high) to retrieve 42 crew members. Sometimes history and legend are one and the same.
I’ve never had to steer a boat into an inferno, but I’ve sailed
through enough heavy seas to regard lighthouses with a tremendous sense of relief. The one at Cape Hatteras, with its daymark of black-and-white candy-cane stripes (each lighthouse is
painted differently, so seafarers can readily identify them), is a
particular talisman. When I was a child, we always came here
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first, my father speeding past our summer cottage no matter
what time it was (often past midnight) and despite my mother’s
objections. He would lift my brother and me out of the car and
brace us, his arm around Mom, in the wind until we caught the
deep, rhythmic roar of the waves foaming in, something we felt
as much as heard. “It’s like a heartbeat,” he would say.
A retreating shoreline and an unusually rapid rise in sea level
(what better place to monitor the effects of global warming than
the Outer Banks?) put the lighthouse, built in 1870 and, at 198
feet, the tallest in the United States, in danger of toppling into
the water. About ten years ago, in a literal case of “Move it or
lose it”—and a civil-engineering feat that made the Guinness Book
of Records—it was jacked up and moved 2,900 feet to safety. I
climbed the steps spiraling up to the top and stood on the circular iron catwalk with Bob Long, a volunteer park ranger.
There were whitecaps about 15 miles offshore on Diamond
Shoals, the bank of ever-shifting sand ridges just below the
surface of the water, which glittered blue-green in the sun. For
centuries, ships have risked foundering in this Graveyard of the
Atlantic to take advantage of the swift-flowing Labrador Current, coming down from the north, or the Gulf Stream, rolling
up from the Caribbean. The treacherous stretch is also known
as Torpedo Junction, for in just six months in 1942, U-boats sank
more than 60 American ships here. About two miles to the
southwest lies Cape Point, where the coast sharply angles westward. “Look, there are breakers on both sides of the point,” said
Long. “They come together like a zipper. Sometimes there will
be two hundred surfers down along the south end.”
STAYING THERE
The north and central Outer Banks from Corolla to Nags Head are within
easy striking distance of THE SANDERLING RESORT & SPA (252-261-4111;
thesanderling.com; from $125), in Duck, on Bodie Island. Just a mile
and a half from the Hatteras lighthouse is the Cape Pines Motel (866456-9983; capepinesmotel.com; from $79). Owners Bill Rapant,
formerly of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, in New York City, and his wife,
Angie, have lovingly and (rare in this age of hipster-meets-old-school)
unironically restored the cottage court to its pine-paneled vintage glory.
It is also one of the most immaculate places I have ever—and I mean
ever—stayed. You’ll find eight simple cottages from the ’50s and ’60s
(as well as 11 bungalow rooms) at Edwards of Ocracoke (800-2541359; edwardsofocracoke.com; from $60).
EATING THERE
Although The Sanderling’s formal restaurant has a dramatic view of
Currituck Sound, my strategy was to have a drink at the handsome bar
and then mosey along to the cozier Lifesaving Station Restaurant
(1461 Duck Rd.; 252-449-6654). The toughest reservation in Duck,
however, is at the ever-popular Blue Point (The Waterfront Shops, N.C.
12, Duck; 252-261-8090; thebluepoint.com). From its red leatherette
banquettes to its savvy menu (iceberg wedge with buttermilk dressing
and Allan Benton’s Tennessee smoked bacon; fried catfish with dirty
rice and pickled tomatillos), the place exudes a jaunty dockside charm.
Picnic under centuries-old live oaks at Corolla Village Bar-B-Que
(takeout only; Historic Corolla Village, “behind Twiddy Real Estate”;
252-457-0076) before exploring Carova. Tucked among weatherbeaten
cottages and ramshackle motels is the bright, shiny Kill Devil Grill
(2008 Beach Rd., at Milepost 9; 252-449-8181), a restored 1939
diner now in the sure hands of chef-owner Bill Tucker. Gingham-shirtclad local businessmen flock there for crab cakes, a blackened
mahimahi sandwich with a revelatory homemade tartar sauce, and the
day’s blue-plate special. If you need a break from seafood, head for
JK’S (U.S. 158, at Milepost 9; 252-441-9555) for a Caesar salad and a
steak grilled over live wood. In Buxton, on Hatteras Island, dinner at
The Captain’s Table (47048 N.C. 12; 252-995-3117) couldn’t be more
basic—brothy Hatteras clam chowder (it tastes of the sea, not of cream)
followed by tender flounder caught by co-owner and charter captain
Rick Scarborough. The hot, crunchy hush puppies that kept appearing
on the table had true corn flavor. Fortify yourself in the morning with
a yeasty apple “ugly” and coffee at the Orange Blossom Bakery & café
(N.C. 12, Buxton; 252-995-4109; orangeblossombakery.com). Spend
enough time on Ocracoke so that you can enjoy meals at Back Porch
restaurant & wine bar (110 Back Road; 252-928-6401), Café Atlantic
(1129 Irvin Garrish Hwy./N.C. 12; 252-928-4861), Flying Melon
Cafe (804 Irvin Garrish Hwy.; 252-928-2533), and Thai Moon Carry-Out
(589C Irvin Garrish Hwy., at Spencer’s Market; 252-928-5100).
B
y ferry, Ocracoke is only 40 minutes away from the tip of
Hatteras, but you’ll find a real sense of isolation there.
The northern half of the island is spacious, sandy, and
uninhabited, like the Pea Island refuge. Civilization—for me,
epitomized by a cozy, white-clapboarded bungalow at Edwards
of Ocracoke—is clustered at the south end, in Ocracoke Village. And, best of all, it turned out that Thai Moon was just the
beginning to the most delicious food of my trip.
At Café Atlantic, most of the customers were fresh from
deep-sea fishing expeditions or surfcasting; the trucks parked
out front had up to 20 rods loaded, like lances, into sockets on
the front bumper, and had extensions on the back for tackle
boxes and coolers. Like many Banks restaurants, the café will
cook a fisherman’s catch to order, and so, in addition to the finest crab cakes I’ve eaten in a very long time, I ended up sharing
plates of broiled drum and grilled tuna with the sunburned,
blissfully happy crowd at the next table. A woman named Patty
had surfcast alongside her husband for almost 50 years. “She
fishes like a man,” her husband said admiringly. “But I treat ’er
like the woman she is.” Patty, who has, presumably, heard this
more times than she can count, blushed.
One thing that was special about the café were the framed
gouaches on the walls. I’d seen plenty of bad art over the past
week, but what I was looking at here was the real thing. The
artist was Debbie Wells, I discovered, who cooks at the café a
few nights a week. Wells, as it turned out, had opened the renowned Back Porch restaurant (crab beignets, fig cake, great
ambience) before selling it to become a full-time painter. “Eventually, though, I missed the energy of a kitchen and the confidence and competence I felt there,” she explained. So she
started cooking again occasionally, just to keep her hand in.
Wells was delighted I’d found Thai Moon (she, in fact, had
helped Moon get her start on Ocracoke), but “You can’t leave
before you try Flying Melon,” she said firmly. “It’s wonderful.”
No kidding. Flying Melon had me with the sweet-potato
pancakes I’d ordered for breakfast. Dinner that night proceeded from tiny corn muffins and fried green tomatoes with rémoulade to sweet, flaky sheepshead, a fish that feeds almost entirely
on small crabs and other crustaceans. Chef and co-owner Michael Schramel, a native of New Orleans, is an absolute master
of the classic lemon-butter sauce, which is all too often overly
acidic or broken. His is seamless, perfectly balanced, a work of
art in its own right.
After dinner, I walked the beach one last time. During the
day, the wind had picked up, swinging more to the east, and
sculpted clouds loomed on the horizon, over the Gulf Stream.
The waves—big ones—curled and broke. I realized my legs
were almost completely coated with grains of fine white sand.
The island was on the move.
atlantic ocean
BEING THERE
COROLLA
Currituck Sound
DUCK
KITTY HAWK
Albemarle Sound
KILL DEVIL HILLS
NAGS HEAD
Roanoke
Island
Hatteras
Island
Pamlico Sound
Ocracoke
Island
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Cape Hatteras
Lighthouse
The Sanderling is an ideal base for one of the ecotours run by Coastal
Kayak Touring Company (North Beach Outfitters, Duck Waterfront
Shops; 252-261-6262; coastalkayak.org) or a drive through Carova
with Corolla Outback Adventures (1150 Ocean Trail, Corolla;
252-453-4484; corollaoutback.com). Channel your inner Wilbur or
Orville by learning to hang glide at Kitty Hawk Kites (252-441-4124;
kittyhawkkites.com), which has an outpost at Jockey’s Ridge State Park
(U.S. 158, at Milepost 12, Nags Head; 252-441-7132;
jockeysridgestatepark.com), or by paying tribute at the Wright
Brothers National Memorial (U.S. 158, at Milepost 7.5; 252-4732111; nps.gov/wrbr). Architecture buffs shouldn’t miss the
spectacular Art Nouveau Whalehead Club, especially the gleaming
pink kitchen (Currituck Heritage Park, Corolla; 252-453-9040;
whaleheadclub.org); architect Frank Stick’s vernacular Southern
Shores Flat Top houses (along N.C. 12 in Duck), built from the late ’40s
until the mid-’60s; and the “unpainted aristocracy,” Old Nags Head
Beach Cottage Row historic district (Beach Rd., from Milepost 12 to
Milepost 13.5). Nearby Roanoke Island is the site of Paul Green’s
long-running (since 1937) outdoor play The Lost Colony (Waterside
Theatre; 800-488-5012; thelostcolony.org), about the New World’s
first English colonists, whose fate remains a mystery to this day. If you
know how to windsurf, up the ante by taking kiteboarding lessons at
Jay Crawford’s Outer Banks Kiting (Avon Village; 252-305-6839;
outerbankskiting.com). At the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse (off N.C. 12,
Buxton; 252-995-4474), swing into the National Park Service
bookshop to pick up Taffy of Torpedo Junction for your favorite nine-yearold; published in 1957, the instant classic tells the story of a young girl
who helped capture a ring of Nazi spies hiding out in Buxton Woods.
Stop just down the road at the Outer Banks Motel to get your purchase
autographed by owner Carol White Dillon—the real “Taffy.” —J.D.L.
Frances o’neal’s Fig Cake
Back Porch Restaurant & Wine Bar, Ocracoke Island, North Carolina
serves 10 to 12
Active time: 20 min Start to Finish: 41/2 hr (includes cooling)
Most of the old houses on Ocracoke have a fig tree in the yard, so
it’s no surprise that many cooks there have a recipe for fig cake and
its primary ingredient, preserved figs. This prizewinner—rich, moist,
and chunky with fruit—from the late Frances O’Neal is a staple at
Back Porch. The restaurant serves it as a layer cake with cream
cheese icing, but we like the traditional version, made in a bundt
pan and dusted with confectioners sugar. Preserved figs can
be ordered from Ocracoke’s Community Store (252-928-9956;
thecommunitystore@yahoo.com) or The Lee Bros. Boiled Peanuts
Catalogue (843-720-8890; boiledpeanuts.com).
Map: Hollis Yungbliut
north carolina
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
3 large eggs
11/2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 tsp baking soda
1 Tbsp warm water
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1 cup preserved figs in syrup,
drained and chopped
1 cup walnuts or pecans, chopped
Equipment: a 10-cup bundt pan
Garnish: confectioners sugar
3Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Generously butter
pan. 3Sift together flour, salt, and spices.
3Beat eggs in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed
until light and foamy, about 2 minutes. Add sugar and beat until
pale and thick, about 2 minutes. Add oil and beat 1 minute.
At low speed, mix in flour mixture in 3 batches, alternating with
buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour.
3Stir together baking soda and water until dissolved, then stir into
batter along with vanilla, figs, and nuts.
3Pour batter into pan and bake until golden-brown and a wooden
pick inserted into center of cake comes out clean, 50 minutes to
1 hour. Cool completely in pan, about 2 hours.
cooks’ note: Cake keeps, tightly wrapped, at room temperature
3 days.◊
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